


Whirlpool

by elizabethgee



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dramatic Jaskier, Getting Together, Insecure Eskel, Kaer Morhen, M/M, One Shot, good bro geralt, just some fluff with a little hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: Eskel finally meets Jaskier and it proves to be a problem (though only for a little bit).
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118





	Whirlpool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EnduringParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/gifts).



> A quick one shot for my lovely friend EnduringParadox.

The bard is _pretty_. It’s the first thing Eskel thinks when Geralt shows up for winter at Kaer Morhen with Jaskier in tow.

With his bright blue eyes and a vibrant, beaming smile— he's like a fresh spring breeze amidst the barren winter of Kaer Morhen. He introduces himself to Eskel as though he doesn’t see the mass of scarring across his face, and there isn’t a trace of fear or even _reticence_ in his scent. It’s oddly disconcerting, though a quick glance at Geralt tells him this is normal behavior for the bard.

“You’ll get used to it,” Geralt says, tugging Eskel into a warm hug.

His throat closes. Sometimes he thinks he’s the only one who looks forward to their time in Kaer Morhen every year, but the warmth of Geralt’s embrace suggests otherwise. He has to clear his throat before he speaks.

“You too, White Wolf. Glad you finally managed to drag your bard along,” Eskel says, eyes darting over to the bard where he’s struggling to untangle several large bags strapped to Roach’s saddle. Unconcerned about the bard's struggle, Roach looks around Kaer Morhen’s courtyard, her sharp eyes sticking on the pile of hay by the stables.

“Not mine,” Geralt says, a knowing look in his eyes. Eskel hums noncommittally, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. Geralt’s low, raspy laugh is too low for Jaskier to hear, but Eskel gives him a soft kick in the shin anyway.

“’M gonna go find Vesemir,” Geralt says, heading off at a job through the courtyard.

“A little help would be—“ Jaskier gasps. A knot slips free and three large bags start to slide off the opposite side of Roach’s saddle. Eskel darts forward just in time to catch them.

“Oh! Wow. Thank you. That was…impressive,” Jaskier fumbles, a light pink dusting across his cheeks.

“I can help,” Eskel says, shoulders twitching at Jaskier’s wide gaze.

“Thank you,” Jaskier beams, handing him a bag. Their fingers brush and Eskel braces himself for a flinch, but Jaskier just smiles as him, warm and grateful for the help—

“I’ll just grab the other bags,” Jaskier sings, and he turns and bends to grab a bag off the ground, giving Eskel a very nice view of his shapely behind. Eskel looks away hastily, swallowing hard.

This bard is going to be a _problem._

\---

It’s fine for the first couple of days. Eskel avoids Jaskier as much as he can, focusing on the initial influx of panicked winter preparations they go through every year. He makes sure they have enough supplies for the winter, checks the castle for weak spots, and he mops and scrubs and dusts as much as he can. Lambert and Geralt always scoff at his cleaning spree, but they also always give in after a day or so and help.

Once the castle is (mostly) clean, he has nothing else to keep him busy, and so he finds himself seeing Jaskier more and more. He knows he’s being obvious, but it’ll be better in the long run if Jaskier just thinks he’s rude. Of course his plan backfires after only a week.

“What’s your problem?” Geralt asks, corning him in the armory early one morning.

It’s a warm day and they want to get some sparring in. The snow in this part of the world is unpredictable, so they take any chance they can get to be outside while the ground is bare.

“What do you mean?” Eskel fakes ignorance, fiddling with his belt.

“Why are you ignoring Jaskier?” Geralt asks.

“I’m not—“

“Eskel,” Geralt growls.

His shoulders string tight.

“I’m just not used to…” Eskel stops, unsure how to answer. What is he not used to? Jaskier’s immediate acceptance? The way he doesn’t flinch from Eskel’s appearance? How fucking pretty he is?

But Geralt seems to fill in the blanks himself and he nods.

“I get it. But look, I have to listen to him complain day and night about how you don’t like him,” Geralt grumbles. “So stop it.”

Eskel’s mouth twists. A soft smack to the back of his head makes him huff, tossing a practice sword through the air.

Geralt catches it easily and gives him pointed look.

“I’ll meet you out in the courtyard,” Geralt says, disappearing into the sunlight. Eskel squeezes the hilt of his practice sword, heart thudding.

_Fuck._

\---

It’s a relief to work off steam with Geralt. They know each other so well that their sparring is more like a dance— well-practiced, easy, and familiar. By the time the sun is high in the sky they’re both sweating profusely. Eskel calls a halt to remove his shirt and Geralt follows suit.

Lambert drops by to heckle them, sitting in the shade of the courtyard’s ancient peach tree and calling out harmless chastisements in a voice remarkably like Vesemir’s. Eskel’s muscles burn, his lungs aching with exertion. One of them will have to give up soon. Geralt must be thinking the same thing because he suddenly drops his sword and _lunges,_ tackling Eskel.

Surprised by the maneuver, Eskel drops to the ground—

“And we’ve resorted to wrestling like teenagers!” Lambert’s gleeful voice calls out.

“Who will win? Will it be the famous, celebrated White Wolf— the prettiest witcher from Kaer Morhen? Or will it be Eskel—the rugged, gentle giant who has caught the eye of the Continent-famous Jaskier?”

Eskel’s heart thuds in his chest and he turns to glare at Lambert, sweat dripping down his spine. Lambert gives him a huge smile from his shady spot by the peach tree and Geralt takes the opportunity, pinning Eskel to the ground in a strong headlock.

With a snarl Eskel taps out and they flop to the ground, breath heaving like beasts.

“That was cheating,” Eskel grumbles, frowning at Lambert.

“I don’t fucking think so,” Lambert smirks. “Besides, I thought I’d provide some commentary for your very rapt audience.”

And he points up to the northernmost turret above the courtyard. Eskel glances up, squinting in the sunlight, just in time to see a familiar hear of brown hair disappear from a window.

Lambert laughs and Geralt joins him, letting out a quiet, hoarse chuckle. Eskel growls and elbows Geralt in the gut. The teasing is unfair— Jaskier was clearly watching _Geralt_ — but it’s so nice to hear his brothers laugh that he lets it slide. But that doesn’t stop him from wiping his sweat with his discarded tunic and throw it in Lambert’s laughing face.

\--

The sparring was a good idea. Eskel is so tired he nearly falls asleep at dinner. Unfortunately it doesn’t stop his thoughts from spinning, and so he finds himself meandering the castle’s halls late that evening.

Usually these kinds of midnight wanderings clear his mind, but tonight he hasn’t had any luck. Eskel gives in, resigning himself to laying awake in bed all night, and heads back towards his room. He’s just passing by Geralt’s room and when he hears voices within and his feet nail to the floor.

“He’s so handsome,” Jaskier’s voice sighs from behind the heavy wooden doors. “How can he not know?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Geralt’s voice rumbles.

Eskel knows he should walk away and spare himself the pain of hearing Jaskier pine for someone else—

There’s the sound of a body flopping dramatically onto a mattress.

“There’s no way I’m his type. But…I could write sonnets about his _voice_. Gods, it’s deeper than the whirlpool off the coast of Spitfire Bluff—“

“Mmm,” Geralt says, and that’s definitely amusement in his voice.

“Do not mock me, Geralt! I can feel it in my _marrow_ when he speaks!”

Eskel frowns. Who the hell is Jaskier talking about? He feels a rush of shame for listening in, and yet he cannot seem to unstick his boots from the floor.

“And he’s so tall and strong— I bet he could lift me over his head with one arm—“

“He could,” Geralt says.

“You monster, don’t tease me with what I cannot have!” Jaskier bemoans.

Geralt hums again, clearly used to the bard’s teasing.

“But,” Jaskier mourns, voice lifting melodically. “Ours is a doomed love—a tragedy—he’ll never know my feelings for him, how I yearn for him—“

“He does now,” Geralt replies.

“What?” Jaskier squawks. There’s the rustle of sheets as Jaskier hops off the bed.

“He’s right outside the door,” Geralt says.

 _What?_ Eskel's heart leaps.

“What?” Jaskier yelps. There are quick, light footsteps from within and the door yanks open to reveal a very flustered, pink-cheeked Jaskier.

_Fuck._ _Jaskier was talking about him?_

“Oh, um,” Jaskier stutters, blue eyes wide and panicked. Eskel feels dumb, standing with his mouth hanging open in shock—

“I suppose you probably heard all of that…that is to say, I suppose you—“

“You were talking about me?” Eskel blurts out, and Jaskier’s blush intensifies.

_Wow._

“Well, um, you see— I didn’t think there was anyone in the hallway—“ Jaskier fumbles, shifting on his feet.

“Put him out of his misery, Eskel,” Geralt mumbles, rolling his eyes as he slides by them and disappearing down the hall.

Jaskier looks truly panicked now, his poet's hands trembling as he tries to smooth down his hair.

“I didn’t mean to upset you—“ Jaskier murmurs, eyes dimming and a terrible frown tugging at his pink lips. “But I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now— a terrible saying really— the poor cat—“

_Fuck it._

Eskel steps into Geralt’s room and slides an arm around the bard’s trim waist. He pulls Jaskier close, lifting him to his toes and slotting their mouths together.

Jaskier’s anxious tirade cuts off and he freezes, hands gripping at Eskel’s tunic. Eskel cups the nape of Jaskier’s neck with his free hand (marveling at the silkiness of his hair), and holds him steady, waiting for his lead. The bard’s lips are so _soft_ and smooth beneath his, and he wonders how horrible his scars feel against Jaskier’s perfect, unblemished skin—

Before he has time to panic Jaskier lets out a rather dramatic, enthusiastic moan and tugs him close, licking at his lips and kicking the door shut behind them.

Eskel growls, delighting in Jaskier’s resultant shiver, and starts walking them back towards the bed.

“We can’t— this is Geralt’s room!” Jaskier yelps between kisses.

“I’ll wash the bedding,” Eskel mumbles back, unwilling to part their lips for even a moment. He slides a hand down to the back of Jaskier’s thighs and lifts, heart throbbing as Jaskier winds his arms around Eskel’s shoulders without hesitation. His thighs clamp around Eskel's hips, the heat of his growing erection burning against Eskel's belly.

 _Geralt will forgive him,_ Eskel thinks walking them to the bed and dropping the bard down, following him easily and smiling as Jaskier giggles in delight.


End file.
